Surprise
by I'm Nova
Summary: Sherlock just wanted a case to distract himself from John's absence (probably in pursuit of yet another girlfriend). He'll discover so many things he would never have believed.
1. Chapter 1

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing. A.N. Happy Birthday, Chrwythyn, love! This is just whipped up in a rush, so it's not much... and I hope you don't mind if I mixed up the current "Bolthole" prompt on Tumblr too. ^^''' I recently rewatched ASIP, so this is somewhere around that time. Oh, and sorry love, it's only half of it (probably) but my Muse is lazy these days. _

Surprise

As much as Sherlock didn't want to admit it, Mycroft was useful sometimes. If only to ensure that, when his little brother appropriated an old bunker that had never been used for its actual purpose, everyone would look the other way. It wasn't like anyone else needed it, and Sherlock needed his web of dens...boltholes, better still call them boltholes, around London.

The life of a detective was full of unforeseen circumstances. Tailing someone taking way longer than expected. A disguise being seen through, as rare as that was. Occasionally (not since John was at his side, bless him), getting hurt enough that stopping and regrouping was the only option. Going back to Baker Street (or, worse, an A&E) could be a waste of time, energy, and mean losing whatever track he was following. Disappearing in the area for a nap, a quick change of clothes, or patching himself up was a much better option. And if for some reason (John's continuous string of girls) he couldn't stand home anymore, it was brilliant to have his pick of refuges already settled instead of picking a random hotel.

Despite his perfect planning for every conceivable situation, the sleuth would never have believed what that bunker would eventually witness.

John had left – again. Sherlock, in a fit of pique, had deleted whatever reason his flatmate offered this time. When Hopkins came, asking help about the gorish case of a burglar that evidently brought along at least one, if not more, dog trained to attack, the sleuth accepted immediately. John would regret missing the case.

Tracking the man took him no more than a couple of hours. The Irregulars had noticed a huge dog dragging a burlap bag around. Sherlock sighed, assuming the drugs some of them were still taking were responsible for the scared warnings that he was given, and the obviously overblown memories.

It was late afternoon by the time he let himself in the burglar's hideout. The man couldn't complain about being a victim of breaking and entering, could he? He'd find at least some of the loot, trap his quarry, and then call Hopkins. And maybe check on the poor dog before someone got in their heads to put him down for what he'd been ordered to do.

That plan went out of the window before he could even announce to the surrprised thief that his crimes stopped here . Hit by moonlight, the other man changed into...something. Something canine, sort of. He had no idea there were airborne drugs here.

The bite wasn't his imagination – at all. Sherlock fought wildly, but was the one thrown to the floor. He was going to die here. He should have not come alone. John – and his gun – would have subdued the...creature. A hand looking for a weapon, any weapon, he found a belt kicked under a dresser. He tugged it out, using it as an impromptu whip.

The other yowled and jumped away. Sherlock blinked, surprised. The buckle was bloodied, but with the awkward angle he'd hit at, he shouldn't have done so much damage. Before that...that could lunge again, Sherlock ran.

A victorious howl followed him. Perhaps Hopkins would consider coming to trap the burglar with a better equipped team. Maybe with help from the zoo. The not quite man probably thought he'd overcome a colleague. Why would he flee?


	2. Chapter 2

_Disclaimer:Nothing mine, of course. A.N. I know, I know, love, your birthday bit was tiny, apologies...I have another bit for you, though (still not all, sorry. I promise, in time.) _

Sherlock didn't feel safe until he was locked in the bunker. Thrice. Ok, time for assessment. He dreaded what he would find...Comminuted fracture of the radius? Deep lacerations already infected with whatever pathogen distorted his perception? Bite or no bite, humans weren't canids...He'd obviously superimposed the images of his two foes. No wonder he wasn't an effective opponent. He would have to call John, no doubt...and the doctor's scolding, no matter how well deserved, would hurt him more than whatever care would be administered. He hated being the stupid one. Especially when it was true.

The sleuth stared at the wound. He was usually good at gauging the seriousness of harm, but the drugs must have been fucking his self-perception, too, lowering his pain threshold to embarrassing level...because, while there was blood (an oddly high quantity...maybe the dog had been disturbed during a bloody meal?) there was, in fact, no wound at all. A deep imprint of teeth, sure, but nothing for John to suture. Had he managed to escape before the dog could plunge his teeth into him fully? Then why did he feel so much pain still? Any soreness from an almost-wound should long be gone.

Fucking drugs. It must be them. Why did he always have to stumble on drugs?

No matter what he told himself he should be feeling, the pain was still there – if anything, it seemed to be growing. Dizziness and a ferocious headache joined in. Damn it. He lay on the floor, trying to get into recovery position. If he was lucky, he'd sleep the drugs off.

He did lose consciousness, that was for sure. When he came to, the following morning, he wasn't in any pain, except a low buzzing at the back of his mind...as if a particularly annoying mosquito kept flying around his ears. The bunker was bug-free, though. Oh, and starving. But that was easily remedied.  
Ok, this was odd. Apparently he'd tried to soothe the munchies even during the time he'd deleted. Not all night asleep, then. And if he'd just eaten, nothing odd in that. One good thing of the bunker was that it'd been stocked – and when people forgot about it, they forgot about that, too. Who cared about a few old cans of whatever passed for food decades ago? Jello something, probably. A few cans lay on the floor, all around him...and none had seen a tin opener (third drawer). Some had been smashed, deformed until they broke, and others...these indents weren't made by a slipped tin opener. No, they looked most like claws.

Looking around, more clues pointed to a rampaging animal let loose inside. Sherlock ran to the door – nope, still locked. Thrice. Then again, if a hungry, angry beast managed to slip in during the night, why hadn't it feasted on the unprotected human inside, instead of attacking the tinned food?

Nothing made sense. He sighed, blinked – almost expecting the whole room to change back to its usual appearance – and then shrugged. This wasn't a mystery he could solve for now. Food and John (John and food?) were his next priorities. His limbs might be intact, but there was definitely something wrong with him. Hopefully John would just hand him a pill and set his brain straight.

His mind might refuse to work properly, but his senses were on overdrive, that wet London morning. They were always sharp – that was the point of observing, after all – but today, everything was amplified. Smells. It was as if all cars had swapped motors overnight for old ones emitting much worse exhaust. Sounds. How likely was it that everyone walking was an American tourist, or at least shared that nation's contempt for soft sounds? Colours, instead, were oddly muted, or plain wrong.

Sherlock instinctively. shook his head. It was stupid, it wouldn't settle him...only it did, a bit. Colours came back, in all their shades. After a short while, sounds stopped giving him a headache. Smells, though, refused to fade back to acceptable level. Thankfully, by then he'd found a cab. Soon enough, he'd be at home, safe from all stench. And with John. Everything would be okay.

Everything was not okay. He'd just walked in when John gave him an once-over and _growled_. And if it wasn't bad enough, John smelled weird – almost like the...dog yesterday? Not the same, definitely not. But...odd.

Sherlock almost took a step back, but this was his home, and John, and fuck it, he wasn't going to be cowed. Especially not when he needed help. It'd set a bad precedent. So instead he plopped on his armchair, asking, "What's your problem?"

"Who dared?" There was no hint of growl anymore in his voice. In fact, John sounded absolutely calm. Drop everything and run if you know what's good for you John could be reasoned with, or even fought. This one was a breath away from murder. And while his sentence made clear he wasn't planning to murder _Sherlock_ just as of yet, it was enough to make him ponder the answer.

"It was a burglar, I didn't know there would be drugs, really – "

Before he could go on to promise he wouldn't face violent criminals (and their pets) without John's assistance anymore, or ask how John could deduce his unwitting use, his blogger laughed. Odd reaction, but Sherlock relaxed. No murder was imminent anymore.

"Drugs. Of course you'd assume drugs. Oh God, where have you been tonight? We have to check..."

"Assume? You might be the doctor, but I know drugs when I'm exposed, thank you very much. In fact, my nose is still out of order – because I inhaled it, I'd say. And no worries, I've been at one of my boltholes...it's...well, it looked to be in an odd state, but even if most of what I've seen was true, nothing irreplaceable was lost." The sleuth glared.

"No blood?"

Oh. So John's doctorly instinct were back online. Thank God. Sherlock repressed a relieved sigh. "No...well, a bit, I thought it was mine, but it couldn't have been."

John frowned. "This morning?"

"Yesterday night, but what does it matter, I wasn't up to showering yesterday – in fact, I think I'll go." Surely any treatment could wait ten minutes. And hopefully, after his flatmate would stop the interrogation and get to cooking. Or healing. Or both.

The warm water was blissful...until he noticed it. It couldn't be a bite scar – not since it was already formed minutes after the bite, especially what felt like a vicious one. But if it was just the imprint of teeth that never pierced him, it should be long gone hours later. Sherlock rubbed his eyes. He'd thought that his eyes went back to their proper function, but what if they didn't? How can he work anymore? Breathe. He needed to breathe. His doctor was here.

Usually the detective rushing from the shower still half-dripping, bundled in a bathrobe didn't make John even look twice. But usually Sherlock was after an experiment, or a case, and didn't stop right in front of him, with an almost lost look in ever-changing eyes. "Do you see that?" he asked.

John's nostrils flared. "I do, but try not to flaunt it at me, will you? Jury's still out."

"It shouldn't be there."

"Definitely not. The bastard should have known better."

The conversation was interrupted by a loud growl...from Sherlock's own stomach.

The doctor sighed. "Of course you didn't eat properly – before or after. Thank God we're well stocked. Sit down, I'll find you something."

Sherlock wasn't going to argue with that. It wasn't his usual fare – his experiments were enough to put him off meat often – but the tartare, followed by a toast slathered with abundant sausages, was exactly what he needed. "Ta," he mumbled, mouth full. Weirdly, the meal seemed to settle his tinnitus too – so continuous he'd forgotten about it.

John smiled at him, once he could use the plate Sherlock had been given as a mirror. "Put something on, please, and then we'll need to have a talk."

Odd. John was an army doctor. He'd never minded his flatmate in various states of undress, if there was something to check. And surely, the...whatever it was, involving teeth, should deserve a look, even if it wasn't actively hurting or bleeding. If only because it was a mystery. Given his flighty moods today, though, the consulting detective decided to go along with the request. He could always undress back, after all. Wait...who exactly was giggling in his mind palace? He wasn't sure. How couldn't he be sure?

Never mind. He'd work that out later. A quick dry off, and rather than dressing up (what for?) he put on the softest pair of pajamas he owned. Next step: explain to John that it was totally drugs. Among other things, perhaps. How had his friend missed the obvious?

_A.N. (again) Just a tiny reminder to my American friends...we Italians are just as loud, if not worse. ;D That sentence just slipped out. Please, don't be offended._


	3. Chapter 3

_Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. A.N. Ok, this is the last fortnightly update, I swear. I have way too many forgotten stories to get to. I'll have to change to monthly from now on. Please don't hate me. ;D_

Sherlock sat in his armchair, accepting the cup of tea with a smile. Perfect, no matter how upset his senses had been recently. Good. He sighed softly. Hopefully they could put the whole debacle behind them.

"You won't like what I have to say. But we would have to talk about it before the next full moon anyway, so we might as well do it right away. You got lucky tonight, but you can't always count on luck," John announced, sitting in front of him.

"What has the moon to do with anything? I mean, yes, it's when that burglar liked to work, but Hopkins will get him long before next time. And you obviously have no idea about him, so –. "

"Breathe first. The moon is involved – in a way that would have been really obvious to you if you'd been less of a scientist and more involved in pop culture. I always thought that your selective ignorance was a gift from my lucky star, but if you did watch a bit more normal shows, you wouldn't go after a fucking werewolf during the full moon."

"Ah ah." Sherlock's voice was completely flat. "I've been drugged, I didn't lose all my neurons, you know. You are usually funnier than this."

"Put your cup down."

The sleuth stared at his suddenly stern flatmate. _That _was a weird reaction to a failed joke.

"Put it down. I'm serious. I won't deal with you choking on top of whatever else will happen next."

The consulting detective instinctively obeyed. Damn, but when John went all Captain on him, it was...hard to deal with. His brain still wasn't alright, though. He'd never had intrusive thoughts before, his mind palace too ordered for them to sneak in. But now...intrusive thoughts would be weird enough. Intrusive whines? What the heck? At least he hoped it stayed enclosed in his mind, if he accidentally uttered such a sound he'd never live it down.

His brain wasn't the only one affected. His senses were screwed over still...or was it again? Because he couldn't see John anymore. No, what he saw was a massive...canid (he wasn't going to pick a breed just yet), its coat what he would have called silver beige if the beast looked anything like a poodle. He had a feeling that it would be mightily offended by being compared to a lapdog, though.

Or maybe not? It was coming closer, slowly, tail wagging softly. Sherlock stared, unmoving. If he was hallucinating, staying put was his best option. If he wasn't...but he had to be. Until a muzzle lay heavily on his knee. Golden eyes, flecked with blue, stared up at him. Damn. If this was madness, too many of his senses were affected to trust himself even a modicum. But werewolves didn't exist! ...Did they?

Sherlock shook his head. It worked last time. Not now. The creature was still there, only now it smirked. While one of its wickedly sharp, long fangs was exposed, he didn't perceive any threat. Asked to caption it, he would have said, "You won't get rid of me that easily."

A damp nose pushed against his hand. Oh, damn it – if his brain turned to mush, he might as well enjoy it. He curled up a bit, petting the soft fur. The creature might be big, but it was obviously friendly. The repetitive motion was almost hypnotic, and when – how long later he wouldn't have been able to say – it disengaged, pit-patting back to the kitchen, the sleuth promptly missed it. He didn't follow, though. Not even when it took his mug from the low table, carrying it delicately back to the kitchen. Chasing delusions never worked well.

Three minutes, and John was back, bringing him tea again. "Yours went cold, so."

Sherlock didn't take it. "If this is payback for Baskerville, you've utterly failed in the suggestion part. I wasn't terrified – not at all."

John dragged a hand over his face. It was a gesture Sherlock tended to elicit in people, true, but _he _hadn't done anything wrong this time. The tea slammed on the low table, splashing a bit around. "Payback for Baskerville? Drugs? Still? I thought you weren't one to stick to preconceived theories against hard data," his blogger...almost growled.

Sherlock didn't whimper. Aloud. Again. He was 97% sure. "The data don't match;" he insisted, "if you say he was a werewolf, never mind that these don't exist, he changed when he was hit by the full moon. If it's not drugs and you're hiding a mastiff of some sort, you should have thought better than bringing it out during the day. Are you really expecting me to believe that was you? Come on. Kudos for the prestidigitation, though."

"Must be a new werewolf, then. Or one who never bothered trying to control his transformation. Considering how stupid he was, it wouldn't surprise me. The moon is always there. The only time I can't change at will is on the new moon. First day of waning? There's plenty in the air to guarantee me a smooth change, if one knows where to find it."

"Prove it."

"Uh...Sherlock, I've just..."

"I might be slightly impaired right now, but I can follow a basic reasoning. If you're a werewolf, and I've survived a werewolf attack, this makes a me a were too. Teach me to change. If the conditions are as good as they can be, it shouldn't be too hard." There. Now John would have to admit his bluff. Or dose him again, with something stronger – but as a doctor, he should be against it.

Neither happened. The new teacup remained forgotten, and his blogger shrugged. "Fine. You'd have to, eventually, anyway. Just one thing before we start."

A-ha. Preemptive excuse coming, no doubt...because his friend knew failure was on its way. It had become too long a joke – pretty much before it started.

"You won't blame any damage you might inflict to floors, furniture or anything else to me. I've never caused trouble at home. That's part of why you didn't realise the truth first, I assume."

"Fine," he grumbled. So they were really going through with this, uh?


End file.
